


Not Her War

by Jenshih_Blue



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 13:26:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenshih_Blue/pseuds/Jenshih_Blue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Joan Watson watching her best friend fall apart before her eyes is more devastating than anything she could have imagined. All she wants is to punish the person at fault for a moment she will never forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Her War

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at any type of Elementary fan-fiction, but the episode 'Risk Management' crawled into my gut thanks to Jonny Lee Miller’s exquisite performance. If that man does not get an Emmy nomination I do not know what the hell is wrong with these people.
> 
> If you haven't seen the episode 'Risk Management' this contains MAJOR Spoilers.

Joan was furious.

 

There was no shock, disbelief, or momentary pause—there was only fury. In that split-second had Joan Watson been a car she would have been a Lamborghini; sleek, beautiful, and deadly to anyone who had the nerve to step in her path. She wanted to rip the _still_ beating heart out of Irene Adler’s chest.

 

As infuriating as Sherlock could be at times she considered him a friend. Being a friend, she’d seen all sides of the man (some more annoying than others) but this side of him she’d never seen. He’d held the history he shared with Irene close, refused to share the story for so long, yet bit by bit, Joan had plucked it from him. Tiny splinters of who he was before the uncontrolled spiral into addiction, removed with surgical precision from his shattered heart. She had seen, at times, a glimpse of the passion he’d held for this _woman_ yet it was nothing more than a glimpse.

 

When they’d entered the sun-drenched studio, music thick in the air along with the scent of turpentine and linseed oil she’d feared what awaited them. You see Joan Watson had come to love Sherlock Holmes in all his aggravating, childish genius as a brother. When her _friends_ and even her _family_ hadn’t understood why she’d left medicine, hell even when she hadn’t truly understood, this man had looked straight into her soul and understood. He’d drawn her close in his own odd way by catering to her curiosity and intelligence like no other had in her life.

 

She hadn’t noticed the cocoon he’d spun around her, allowing the wounds deep in her soul to heal, until the moment she’d realized one morning she’d hadn’t thought of the patient she’d lost in weeks. It was then she’d decided she would find a way to stay with him even after her time as a sober companion for him ended. She’d never thought of herself as a selfish person, perhaps she wasn’t, but part of the reason she stayed was selfish. She’d spent most of her life trying to please her family to feel as if they were proud of her for her accomplishments. The preeminent over achiever she’d wasted years doing something—although she was brilliant at doing—that wasn’t her dream.

 

Sherlock had freed her in ways she could never repay him.

 

When he’d stumbled, she’d reached out to brace him. The expression on his face would haunt her for weeks to come. The man who seemed never to shut up at times had lost all sense of speech, eyes filling with tears, and his body began to tremble against her, legs threatening to fold beneath him. He’d lifted one shaking hand and pointed forward, a whisper escaping.

 

“Irene.”

 

Joan thought she’d misheard his raspy declaration. Perhaps, though it had been wishful thinking on her part.

 

“Who?”

 

“Irene.” He’d managed once more.

 

She turned her head and took in the long flow of blonde hair of the woman who sat painting, back to them. Her heart had rose in her throat, followed by the anger, as he’d managed the name one more time.

 

“Irene.”

 

It was impossible—wasn’t it? Irene Adler was dead, murdered back in London. Her death had left Sherlock crushed, his once _recreational_ drug use enveloping him in a blanket of darkness. In the darkness the pain disappeared if but for a few hours. Joan understood more than Sherlock thought.

 

The woman turned, brush poised above the canvas she worked on, eyes wide as he stumbled forward, tears streaking his pale face. Joan never let go of him, fingers clinging to his jacket sleeve as he took another step. She wasn’t ready to let him slip away into this surreal nightmare—not yet.

 

She hated this woman. She hated what she’d done to Sherlock in a matter of seconds. There was no viable excuse that Joan could fathom for Irene Adler’s sudden resurrection after all this time. Had she not understood how Sherlock had felt about her? Didn’t she understand her death had devastated him in a way nothing else had in his life?

 

Every inch of her being screamed to lash out at her; make her understand this was unacceptable.

 

Despite his denial to the contrary, Sherlock Holmes was a normal man when it came to Irene. A man who’d fallen in love, found joy for a short while, and then had suffered intense grief over the loss of that love. He’d spent so much time trying to forget, to obliterate, and here she was alive and Joan could see the walls crumbling to dust as if they’d never existed at all.

 

Yes, Joan Watson was furious, but this was not her war to fight. This was his battle. One he needed to fight. One she had no business interfering in on any level. This time though Sherlock would not be alone.

 

Another soldier, a true friend would be at his side and for now, she would await the outcome.

 

~Finis~


End file.
